


Times (People) Change

by hatebeat



Series: Putting the gears in motion [26]
Category: Metalocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 03:39:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1729775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hatebeat/pseuds/hatebeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Los Angeles - 1985.</i> Joining Snakes N' Barrels made Pickles change in ways he didn't really anticipate. But hey, change is a good thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Times (People) Change

**Author's Note:**

  * For [throwashadow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/throwashadow/gifts).



_Los Angeles, California - July, 1985._

It was the first time in at least a decade (or at least in Pickles' living memory) that he'd been bullied into putting on a tie. He had on nice khakis, too- even ironed 'em and everything- and a dress shirt, buttoned all the way up like it was supposed to be. He hated places that reeked of the _law_ and the _system_ , and he sure as fuck knew he had more than one reason to stay as far away as hell as possible, so walking into a courthouse entirely of his own volition wasn't something he would have seen himself doing say, oh, maybe six months ago.

And maybe it wasn't _entirely_ of his own volition. See, there had been a little bit of legal trouble. Once they got signed and all, there were a lot of contracts and paperwork and shit that needed signed, and Pickles refused to sign a damned sheet of it as anything but _Pickles_. It was his fuckin' _name_! And he insisted that until the cows came home, but apparently it wasn't legally binding or anything since it didn't match what it said on his driver's license. Big deal, Pickles thought. But Peter Whittaker thought different. That new manager of theirs may have had a little something to do with Pickles' decision to finally get his name legally changed.

With representation, it would be easy (Whittaker assured him). Pickles hadn't wanted to go in without a lawyer-- no way in hell would he even think about waltzing into that lion's den by him-fuckin'-self, even if Whittaker kept saying that it was a simple, routine process, that he wouldn't be in any risk despite whatever law-straddling activities he made part of his daily life. 

"You have nothing to worry about, Pickles," that guy told him. "And it'll make my job easier, too."

But anyway, Pickles kind of liked the idea of finally having no real tie to his family anymore. The name was the last thing he had binding him to them. Not like he'd used it for fuckin' forever now, anyway.

So he'd sent in the forms that Whittaker gave him and on the morning he was assigned a hearing, Pickles edged into the courthouse wearing a shirt and fucking tie and met Whittaker in the lobby. Wasn't going another step without him. They took an elevator up a few floors while Whittaker groggily sipped his coffee and Pickles fidgeted, feeling like a clown in the too-formal get-up.

The room they stepped into was like an office, not at all what Pickles was expecting. There was a front desk and everything, and Whittaker stepped forward and told the mid-40s, slightly greying receptionist that Pickles was checking in. She pointed him over to another desk in the corner, and Whittaker thanked her and pushed Pickles by one rebellious shoulder to go sit down in front of it. There, some guy asked him questions, looked at his ID, and then told him to wait until it was time. 

Easy enough on the surface maybe, but Pickles would have bolted in a heartbeat. Perhaps the fear of walking into a courtroom was a little irrational when there was a time in which he'd waltzed into a fucking _jail_ for visitation nearly every weekend not too long ago in his life, but he still hated it. Couldn't help it.

10:40 rolled around, and it reminded Pickles what a fucking ungodly hour it was. He hadn't actually been to sleep yet and he wished he'd shoved some uppers down his throat before heading in to keep him awake and maybe sane, but the thought of strolling high into a courthouse was decidedly badass and yet simultaneously just not worth it. At 10:43, a woman came into view and started calling names, of which _Matthew Dillon_ happened to be one. 

Pickles looked at Whittaker, perplexed. "I ain't even goin' in alone?"

"No. I told you, this is so routine, it's cake. They'll take a group in at once, get you all taken care of together." Whittaker stood and motioned for Pickles to get up and come with him. Pickles straightened his tie as he stood, and then messed it back up on purpose; he was a fucking rockstar, he didn't _want_ to look like one of these damned professional robots!

They took a seat in the back of the little room, the room crowded with little clusters of other people, all here apparently to get their names changed alongside him. This wasn't so bad, Pickles guessed, but he still was ready to get the hell out of there by time the judge even walked in. He was just a regular guy and everything.

The first lady in the cramped little room got called up, she was sworn in and shit, and then the old dude sitting at the desk in front of all of them just asked her why she wanted her name changed, and turned out she was just divorced and shit. What a boring reason, Pickles couldn't help thinking, and a surge of pride swelled in his chest that he wasn't as boring as the rest of these regular old boring assholes. But even knowing that, Pickles wasn't exactly sure he knew how to relay that to a judge; Whittaker had told Pickles to prepare a reason (two months in advance) but now that he was here and now that this was all real, every word he'd halfheartedly prepared was tumbling out of his head.

The next guy was called up, and he was some Asian dude who was changing his name to sound more American, and Pickles thought that was the funniest shit he'd ever heard in his life, but whatever floated that guy's boat or whatever. Yet even though he was still laughing to himself, the judge called ' _Matthew Dillon_ ' next, and Pickles straightened up in his seat and froze solid, down to the edges of his toenails. 

He got to his feet in kind of a daze, and suddenly he wished he wasn't quite so sober, but there was nothing to do for it now. Peter Whittaker was at his side, only about an inch or two behind him as he walked up to the front of the little room. The judge swore him in, but there wasn't a bible or anything like there was in movies. Heh, thank god-- Pickles never believed in all that shit, anyway. 

"Mr. Dillon, can you please explain the reason why you're seeking a legal change of name?" the judge asked, scrutinizing him over the tops of his lenses, like the untamed red hair gave him away for the rocker he was despite the fact that he had painstakingly squashed himself into this tie and shit just for this guy.

"I just don't like my name," Pickles told him, ignoring the fact that it was all because his family hated him, because he didn't belong with them and never had and he never _would_. He wasn't one of them, not really. And even if maybe there had been some point in his life when he might have wanted to be, that was all behind him. It was too late, at any rate. Even if he wanted that. Which he _didn't_. "I already been goin' by Pickles for years anyway, might as well make it official, you know?"

To his surprise, the judge didn't even bat an eyelash. Something in Pickles had bucked up inside of him, ready to fight back as he was so sure this old crotchety guy would argue with his choice of name. But maybe it wasn't like that...? Maybe this guy had really heard it all already, just like Whittaker had said.

"And you swear that you are not conducting this name change in order to avoid debt or commit fraud of any sort?" the judge continued, and Pickles just nodded dumbly, still treading unspilled adrenaline.

"Yeah. I mean, uh, yes. I swear. That."

The judge adjusted his glasses, then gave the paper on his desk a closer look. "Ah yes, Mr. Dillon: you neglected to fill out the 'last name' line on your paperwork. Did you wish to keep your current surname?"

" _No,_ " Pickles insisted, finally letting that adrenaline come gushing forth as he leaned forward emphatically in his seat. "I don't want no part of that name!"

"What would you like to change it to, then?" the judge asked, once more peering at him from over his glasses, and if Pickles was listening, he'd hear that guy sounding just a touch impatient.

"Can't I just be 'Pickles'?" he whined, scratching at a bit of stubble on his jaw.

"You really didn't fill out a last name?" Whittaker muttered at Pickles, annoyed.

"By law, you must maintain both a first and a last name," the judge explained. "If you cannot decide now, then we will have to postpone your hearing until another date."

"Nah," Pickles decided suddenly. "I got it."

\---

_Los Angeles, California - May, 1986._

Donny smoked a bowl the first thing when he woke up. He hadn't been able to bring anything on the airplane, of course, but the kid had already had some great stuff waiting for him when he landed-- better than Donny had been able to get his hands on in a while. Being in jail for a year and a half kind of made you lose connections, believe it or not. 

He wasn't really into drugs anymore, not after being locked up for 'em. But marijuana wasn't _really_ a drug, he thought. Not really.

Pickles was still sprawled out fast asleep over the mattress by his side (hogging the bed, actually), even as the hot sun glared at his exposed skin from the uncovered windows. Man, these guys were living pretty shitty, Donny thought. This place wasn't even as nice as the shithole he and the kid had lived in a couple years back; but then, this was LA, and a shithole like that would cost a hell of a lot more than a shithole like this, Donny figured.

So he smoked a bowl of Pickles' weed, or Tony's, or whoever's it was; Tony had ducked out of the disheveled studio for the weekend to let Donny stay over, to let him help celebrate the release of Snakes N' Barrels' major debut album, and more importantly to Donny, Pickles' birthday. And after he'd smoked, Donny had kind of given the kid a shove on the shoulder, seeing if he was ready to stir. Pickles gave a weird little moan in his sleep and rolled away from the prodding, fingers groping blindly for a piece of the sheet to yank over his vulnerable body, but finding none. 

With a little grin, Donny just pulled the sheet up over him and pushed his own legs off the bed, feet reaching for the floorboards.

Donny went over to the kitchen, which was only a few feet away from the bed, and opened the fridge. The insides were gutted; the primary contents included a jar of half-empty spaghetti sauce, an egg carton which turned out to have only two eggs left in it and ten broken eggshells, an empty peanut butter jar, and a half gallon of milk that expired tomorrow among a few other strange odds and ends. He found a potato in there, too. He'd have to tell the kid that those things didn't need to be refrigerated, but he supposed that could wait 'til later.

Having pulled out the eggs and milk, he started to push the clutter off the stove. An unwashed bowl sat atop an unwashed plate, and inside the bowl an unwashed glass. He moved those to the sink, then not-too-quietly shoved half a dozen empty beer bottles into a trash can. There was a short stack of mail staring up from one of the burners at him, then, already tainted with dribbles of leftover beer. 

As Donny moved them aside he had to crush a roach that came scurrying out from beneath, but then his eyes fell upon the name that the bill on top of the stack was addressed to.

_Pickles Canfield._

Damn. What a little shit.

For a second he could do nothing but grin, then shake his head. But then he cleared the mail away from the burners and onto the peeling laminate countertop so he could make some damned birthday morning french toast for this fuckin' kid.


End file.
